


No More Desire a Rose Than Wish a Snow

by Crowgirl



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade 2015 Winter Challenge [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Uses His Words, First Time, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I didn’t know it would happen and -- and I didn’t know it would freak you out so bad. I--’<br/>‘Dean, you have done nothing wrong. All right? Please. Stop apologizing.’<br/>‘Then what the hell is it? If it’s not that then--’<br/>‘I fucking <i>liked</i> it, all right!’</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Desire a Rose Than Wish a Snow

‘He took my _car?’_ Dean’s knee gives and he topples onto the blanket-covered couch. A small cloud of dust puffs up around him but he just keeps staring at Sam. ‘The asshole -- fucking -- _hot-wired_ my car!’

Sam looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or start backing slowly away. He compromises on an awkward grin and a shrug. ‘It’s gone, man. You sure you didn’t leave the keys in it?’

Dean growls -- quite literally, _growls._ Castiel is impressed. ‘Of course I didn’t leave the _fucking_ keys in it!’ He pulls them from his pocket and hurls them at Sam who side-steps neatly, letting the keys clatter onto the floor by the screen door onto the porch.

‘Well -- whatever. It’s gone, warlock’s gone, and we’ve got a twenty-mile walk.’ Sam glances out the door and grimaces. The drifts of snow aren’t high but they are solid white between here and the road where the Impala had been. And once they get to the road, Castiel knows it is not a lot better; there are the ruts from their tires, but it won’t be easy walking.

‘Dean cannot walk twenty miles.’ Castiel feels he is pointing out the painfully obvious but Dean growls again.

‘I’ll walk however far I fucking _have_ to so I can rip that fucker’s liver out his nose--’ He starts trying to lever himself to his feet, but his left knee plainly is not taking his weight and he keeps half-collapsing onto the arm of the couch. ‘Goddamn it -- little help here, Cas!’

Castiel ducks under Dean’s outstretched arm and takes his weight patiently, adjusting to help Dean start to hop slowly, clumsily forward. 

Sam stands in the doorway, hands on his hips, and eyes them skeptically. ‘Yeah. That’s gonna work.’

Dean grumbles something under his breath and taps Castiel on the hip. ‘Just -- let me go, man.’

Reluctantly, Castiel releases his grip on Dean’s waist and steps back. Dean grabs the back of the armchair for support and wavers on his right foot for a minute before, tentatively, stepping forward with his left. He shifts his weight gingerly and, until he’s almost entirely off his back foot, it looks like he might make it. Then he lifts the toe of his back boot off the floor and his left knee gives completely. Castiel only barely manages to keep him from hitting the floor again and that’s at the sacrifice of an unpleasant pulling sensation in his lower back just above his left hip. 

‘Fuck -- Cas -- I’m sorry--’ Dean slings his arm around Castiel’s neck and, if Dean weren’t injured and Sam weren’t two feet away, Castiel could find this quite enjoyable. As it is, not so much. He lugs Dean to the armchair and, gracelessly, dumps him into it.

Sam clears his throat as Dean catches his breath. ‘So, Cas. Can you--’ He bites off the rest of the sentence as Castiel stands up, rubbing at his lower back with both hands and looks at him steadily. ‘Fuck. Forgot. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘So -- looks like me, then. Great.’ Sam looks back out the door, sighs, and steps inside, pulling the inner door shut against the cold. ‘Maybe he’s got some skis tucked away or something.’

‘I could walk back,’ Castiel volunteers. Perhaps he can no longer flash between places but he can get there the usual way.

‘Toss you for it.’ Sam digs a coin out of his pocket and balances it on his knuckles.

‘Heads.’

The coin flicks into the air, Sam catches it, and slaps it down on the back of his hand. ‘Your lucky day, Cas.’ He drops the coin back in his pocket and looks around the small cabin. ‘Think he had any food here?’

* * *

Castiel finds a ratty old backpack -- Sam’s, of course, was safely stowed away in the Impala’s trunk, wherever that is -- and he and Sam stuff it full of granola and cheese sticks and a couple of sad-looking apples from the back of the fridge. Sam vanishes onto the back porch for a minute and comes back holding a pair of elderly but functional snowshoes. He tests the bindings while Castiel fills two bottles with water. Dean, unable to do anything else, sits on the couch and watches them.

Sam shoulders the backpack, fiddles with the straps for a minute, and walks to the door. ‘All right. I’ll get back here as soon as I can--’

‘Find my car,’ Dean interrupts, glaring at him.

‘Dude, I’ll get _another_ car and come get the two of you before you end up snacking off each other. _Then_ we find the car.’ Sam takes a deep breath and pushes out the screen door. Castiel watches him pause for a minute at the edge of the plank porch and kneel to strap on the snowshoes. He gets up awkwardly and his first few steps are unsteady and fumbling. He tramps in a wide circle and, by the time he makes a second round, he’s steady on his feet and has found his stride. Sam looks up, sees Castiel in the door, and grins at him, flashing a thumbs-up before turning his back and heading for the road.

Castiel closes the inner door and locks it, turning back into the broad living room. Whatever else the warlock had been, he certainly had taste: this was no grimy cabin in the woods smeared with chalk and candlewax. Clearly the man had wanted to do his Yule rites in comfort. There are wide windows to the right and left of the door, a great bay window on the far wall looking out into the trees and down a gentle slope towards a small run of water, now frozen solid under the snow. The wood is all golden, planed smooth and varnished. The furniture is a bit sparse, admittedly, a couch, a low table, and two armchairs, but there are stools at the high island that makes the demarcation between living room and kitchen.

The only thing that really sets it apart from being just another vacation cabin in the north of Vermont is the set of ritual knives carefully wrapped in black silk at one end of the counter; the thick, sweet red wine in a clay bottle in the refrigerator; and the great raw ox heart, a tiny bean sitting next to it, in a silver dish near the sink. Castiel scowls at it and considers dropping a towel over it -- or perhaps simply hurling it into the woods. 

‘Great.’ Dean lets his head drop back on the couch. ‘Just...fucking...great.’

Castiel starts looking through the cabinets he hadn’t been through with Sam. Tinned soup, dry noodles, dry beans, condensed milk--- He finds what he’s looking for stuffed above the kitchen sink and shakes out a palmful of bright orange pills. ‘Here.’ He offers Dean four.

Dean dry-swallows them without comment and leans his head back again.

Castiel takes the other four pills; they’re bitter, a little hard to swallow, but he gets them down and opens the small freezer compartment above the fridge. There aren’t ice packs -- but there are bags of frozen vegetables. He picks out a bag of peas and closes the compartment.

‘Take off your boot.’ 

‘What?’ Dean blinks his eyes open.

Castiel knocks the toe of his shoe against the side of Dean’s boot. ‘Take off your boot. And roll up your jeans.’

‘Gee, Cas, you haven’t even bought me dinner yet,’ Dean says with a halfhearted laugh. Castiel does not respond and Dean sighs and starts working at his laces. He slides the boot off, tucks the sock inside, and starts trying to cuff up his pants leg. He gets to just below the top of his calf and stops.

‘What?’ The bag of peas is starting to burn Castiel’s fingers and he drops it on the coffee table on top of what looks like the most recent issue of _GQ_. A fashionable warlock, no less.

‘I can’t --’ Dean puts his hands on either side of his left knee and presses, barely enough for Castiel to see the pressure wrinkles in the cloth. He flinches and drops his hands. ‘Shit. I can’t do it. Knee’s too swollen.’

‘Then take them off.’

Dean stares up at him and says nothing for a long, silent minute. Castiel can’t tell what’s going on behind those green eyes but he’d be willing to give up quite a lot of the very little he now owns to know what it is. After a minute or two, Dean gives a minute shrug and pushes his hips up off the couch, bracing himself on his good foot. He unzips and yanks his jeans down quickly, sliding the material a little more carefully over his left knee. 

‘You should have taken off--’

‘My other boot first, yeah, yeah -- Mr. Helpful --’ Dean toes it off awkwardly and drags his jeans off, dropping them on the floor with a tiny flourish. ‘There.’ He looks up at Castiel almost defiantly. ‘That what you had in mind?’

Castiel stares at him, working out possibilities in his head. The honest answer would be, no, blue-striped boxers and a pair of greying sports socks with a hole in one toe were not what he had in mind. ‘Here.’ He thrusts the bag of peas at Dean. ‘Put this on your knee.’

‘I know what to do with it.’ Dean takes the bag and presses it into place around his kneecap. He looks back up at Cas and his face contorts for a minute like he can’t decide what expression he wants. ‘So -- thanks.’

‘For frozen peas?’ Castiel digs out a bag of frozen broccoli for himself and tries to make himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. It’s very slightly too soft; the give under his hip isn’t comfortable.

‘No, y’idiot -- for shoving me out of the way so that asshole didn’t get my head.’

‘Oh.’ Truth be told, Castiel had been feeling a little guilty about that. Technically, he supposed it was his fault Dean was unable to walk: he hadn’t realised his shove would carry Dean over the head of the stairs. Still, he supposed it was better than letting the warlock crack him over the head with a cricket bat.

‘I mean, pushing me _down_ the stairs was a bit much, but--’

Castiel grimaces. ‘You know I did not mean to do that.’

‘Yeah, I know. S’okay. Not much else you could’ve done.’ Dean looks at him for a minute and adds, ‘So what’s wrong with you?’

Castiel wriggles in his chair and sits forward, tugging at the back cushion to bring it against his back in a vain attempt to hold the frozen vegetables in place. ‘I -- bent over the wrong way.’

‘Bad?’ Dean’s eyes are sharp now when Castiel looks up and he doesn’t know whether to feel annoyed -- that Dean thinks he can’t take care of himself -- or warmed -- that Dean cares whether he is hurt.

‘I don’t think so.’ 

‘Good.’

Warmed, definitely. Whether or not he wants to be.

Dean shifts, easing his hips against the back of the couch, and takes a breath like he’s going to add something -- but doesn’t.

Castiel finally gives up on the cushion and simply leans forward over his knees, trying to keep the bag in place with one hand over his hip.

‘Jesus, dude, that looks awkward.’

‘Thank you.’ Castiel leans towards his right side, trying to wedge the bag of broccoli in place with the waistband of his jeans. It doesn’t work -- of course it doesn’t work -- and he sighs.

‘Just -- come over here.’ Dean scoots himself over to one side of the couch and Castiel eyes the empty space for a minute before silently agreeing that, yes, that would be the sensible, adult thing to do: there’s more space, the cushions are firmer, and he could stretch his legs out properly which feels like it might be a good idea. 

Silently, he gets up and switches seats, wedging the bag against his lower back with a small pillow and leaning back with a quiet sigh. He closes his eyes, letting his head drop back against the top of the couch cushions. Being tired is still something he’s not entirely used to. He rather enjoys it sometimes but tonight it just feels like something dragging at him.

‘So --’ Dean clears his throat. ‘Any food in this place?’

Castiel waves towards the kitchen without opening his eyes. ‘Plenty of canned soup, noodles. You won’t starve.’

‘You need to eat, too, y’know.’

‘I know.’

Silence falls again and Castiel listens to the silence. He can hear the occasional bird call outside, a faint scrabbling that he thinks is a squirrel on the roof. He could maybe fall asleep just like this if---

‘So what’s been going on with you anyway.’

\--if Dean doesn’t say anything. ‘I do not know what you mean.’

‘Oh, yeah, you do. You never talk like -- like angel-you unless you’re avoiding something.’

‘I am still-- ' Castiel bites the words off. He isn’t. He has to admit it sometime. ‘Nothing is going on with me.’

‘You’ve been in a crappy mood for a month.’ 

Castiel closes his eyes. He can’t say it isn’t true without directly lying and he still doesn’t enjoy doing that very much. And, to be honest, he’s pretty sure Dean can tell when he tries -- which is, of course, part of the problem. Dean knows him. Better than anyone else on this -- this wretched little mudball he fell to save, the man sitting right next to him _knows_ him. 

‘So what’s going on.’ Dean’s elbow jabs -- not ungently -- into his side. ‘C’mon.’

‘Dean--’

‘We got nothing better to do ‘til Sammy gets back. Twenty miles -- that’s gonna take even him a couple of hours.’

‘At least five,’ Castiel calculates without opening his eyes. He feels Dean lean forward slightly and guesses that he’s looking out the window.

‘Yup, that’s fair. And by then it’s gonna be stone-dark and the selfish little bastard’ll probably stop to get food or somethin’--’ Now Dean is just rolling through words; Castiel knows as well as Dean does that Sam will not pause for anything unnecessary before finding -- or, if he has to -- stealing a car. ‘--and he probably won’t even think to bring us some.’

‘There’s soup.’

‘Yeah, you said.’ Dean is silent for a minute, then Castiel hears him take a breath.

‘Are you hungry?’ Castiel levers himself off the couch before Dean can say anything. Whatever it is Dean is about to ask or imply or infer or question is not something Castiel wants to answer. ‘Or is that a foolish question?’

‘Well, kinda but, Cas--’

Castiel opens up the kitchen cupboard and fixes his eyes on the array of tins. ‘Split pea, chicken noodle -- sorry, _faux_ chicken noodle -- Thai sweet potato or corn chowder?’

* * *

Dinner takes about an hour out of the afternoon and, by the time Castiel is washing the dishes, trying very hard not to wince when he turns to the right and his lower back pulls, the sun has set almost entirely. The trees are a solid swath of blackness at the far end of what would be a nice lawn in summer and is now just a stretch of snow. A raccoon waddles across the snow, leaving a trail of neat, delicate footprints; it pauses, glances at him, assesses him as no threat, and continues on its bow-legged way into the trees.

Out of habit, Castiel locks the door. It won’t make any difference if the warlock decides to come back -- if nothing else, neither of the windows have shutters.

He turns back into the room and Dean is just lowering himself back onto the couch, having done a slow, awkward hopping round of the room to turn on the two floor lamps. He looks up at Castiel and pats the couch cushion beside himself. ‘Nice dinner, Cas.’

‘Thank you.’ Castiel stays where he is. He knows Dean is neither stupid nor forgetful and staying where he is seems like the best option. It’s barely six o’clock but he could probably make a good argument for being tired and-- Shit. He flinches from the thought which makes his back twinge painfully.

‘You okay?’

Dean is making as if to stand up, one hand on the arm of the couch.

Castiel looks at him blankly for a minute. 

The bed. 

There was only one bed. 

Upstairs, first room on the left, one queen-size bed made up with a very pretty quilt and three pillows at the headboard. 

‘Cas?’

Castiel blinks. ‘You should rest.’

‘Uh -- yeah, I was going to.’ Dean settles down in his place on the couch and pats the cushion beside him. ‘Join me?’

‘I--’ Castiel bites his tongue. ‘I am...I am tired. I think...I think--’

Dean’s eyebrows arch up and he tilts his head. ‘Yeah?’ 

‘I will sleep on the couch. You should take the bed.’

‘Uh -- no?’ Dean shoves himself to his feet. ‘That’s the stupid way ‘round.’

‘What?’ 

‘Your back hurts -- you sleep on this thing and you won’t be able to walk in the morning.’

As if that was the worst thing that could possibly come out of this night. ‘Your knee--’

‘Doesn’t need that much room. That bed’s huge. If you’re tired, let’s go.’ Still gripping the back of the couch, Dean swings himself around the end of it and starts hopping towards the stairs.

Castiel can’t decide if he wants to laugh or not. Dean looks truly ridiculous hopping over a polished board floor on one foot, shirt-tails flapping over faded old boxers; or groan -- after all, Dean’s ass is _right there_ and he may have only realised that was what he wanted a month or two ago but that’s more than enough time to make up his mind. He could simply collapse on the spot and claim he can’t move -- after all, that would keep him from having to go upstairs.

In the end, Dean stumbles over the edge of the thick rag rug at the bottom of the stairs and Castiel moves forward to support him before he can think.

* * *

By the time they’ve gotten upstairs and around the sharp turn into the bedroom, Castiel has nearly bitten his lip to blood and would give almost anything he owns -- which is little enough -- to be able either to heal himself or, a close second, pass out until his back has healed on its own. The pain is radiating down his leg, a sharp, cramping throb that goes all the way to his toes.

Dean drops down onto the bed and Castiel leans over, planting his hands on the mattress, squeezing his eyes closed. If he doesn’t _move_ \-- if he stays very, very _still_ \-- perhaps the pain will simply...vanish.

‘Cas.’

Dean’s voice sounds a little distant and Castiel ignores him.

‘Cas. Hey--’ Dean has a hand on his arm which is fine but the light shake to get his attention is agony.

‘Don’t!’ Castiel pulls away sharply and the nerves over his hip stab down towards his toes. 

‘Hey, c’mon--’ Dean’s hands are on his shoulders, quite gentle now, no shaking. ‘You’ve gone white, man -- lie down.’

‘I _am_ white,’ Castiel grumbles but doesn’t fight Dean’s attempt to turn him and settle him down on the mattress. If he was being strictly honest with himself, he might even say he enjoys it: Dean’s hands are warm and a little rough; he can feel the calloused patch on Dean’s trigger finger and the half-healed scratch along the side of his hand from a hasty tire change on the Impala earlier in the week. 

‘Yeah, not this color you’re not.’ Dean’s voice is quiet and Castiel doesn’t resist when Dean gently urges him back against the pillows. Lying down isn’t much less painful, but it takes some of the direct stress off his hip which helps a little. When Dean says nothing and Castiel doesn’t hear him move, he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. 

Dean is standing by the side of the bed, leaning slightly to one side to ease his knee, his fingertips on the bedside table for balance and Castiel cannot for the life of him decide what Dean’s expression means. It isn’t hard or closed-off; Dean’s mouth is soft and his eyes aren’t dark or shuttered-looking. It looks almost as though he’s thinking about something, abstracted from what’s in front of him. But Castiel can feel that gaze on his skin.

Dean takes a breath as if he’s going to say something but lets it out in a long sigh instead. ‘Do you want anything?’

‘No.’ Castiel shakes his head slightly against the pillow and Dean nods, still looking down at him as though trying to find the words for something. After a moment or two, he simply shakes his head and hops around to the other side of the bed. 

Dean stretches out beside him and clicks off the overhead light from the switch at the head of the bed. The room seems plunged into darkness -- and then the darkness becomes defined by the walls, the window becomes a lighter gray square, and Castiel can make out the shape of the open doorway. He can barely hear Dean breathing beside him and there’s no other sound in the house, really. ‘Sam should be back soon.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is your knee feeling any better?’

‘A little.’

Castiel closes his eyes, folding his hands over his chest. It’s illogical that he should feel let down, as though something has not happened that should have happened. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a beat of his heart, lets it out slowly.

‘Cas.’

‘Yes, Dean.’

Dean inhales sharply and Castiel can almost hear the words backing up in his throat, but he says nothing and lets the breath out in a quick rush. 

Castiel tries to relax, tries to will the steady cramping throb in his lower back to lessen, to vanish -- it doesn’t work, but he does feel his shoulders relax a little and thinks that maybe, just possibly, he could get a little sleep before Sam comes back. 

‘Do you think I don’t notice?’

‘What?’ Castiel blinks his eyes open and stares up at the dim ceiling. He had been closer to being asleep than he thought and, for a minute, he’s not quite sure he’s actually heard Dean speak.

Dean sighs and Castiel feels the mattress dip as he shifts position. ‘Look, I don’t know what I _did_ but I wish you’d just fucking tell me so I could buy you a drink or let you punch me or whatever so you’d get over it.’

‘I don’t-- you didn’t do anything.’ 

‘Then why don’t you stay with us any more?’

‘I -- am with you all the time--’

The quilt rustles as Dean shifts impatiently. ‘Yeah, your body’s here but-- I mean -- I thought you liked playing pool with me.’

‘I did-- I do, I -- what?’

‘Then why haven’t we played in two months? Why’re Sam and I the only two at the bar any more? Why--’ Dean sighs sharply.

‘I thought you and Sam would -- enjoy the time together; I--’ Castiel knows he sounds awkward; he _feels_ awkward and he’s glad there’s no light on because his expression can’t be helping him hide. 

‘We get plenty of time together,’ Dean says flatly. ‘I thought you --’ Castiel sees a faint blur out of the corner of his eye and realises Dean is scrubbing a hand over his head, tugging at the short strands as if that will help him think. ‘I thought we-- I mean, I thought we were -- we were okay, we were--’

‘We are okay, Dean.’

‘But, yeah, no, that’s bullshit ‘cause we’re not. Because you don’t talk to me any more and when you do your face’s all--pinched up like you’ve got a bad taste in your mouth.’ Dean shifts his shoulders, clearly trying to pace without getting up, and adds, ‘And, look, I know...I know that wasn’t cool that night but it wasn’t my fault, okay, I was asleep. It’s not my fault. You can’t blame a guy for that!’

‘It--what?’ Castiel blinks up into darkness. 

‘I can’t help it, okay? Why do you think Sam and I always get double rooms? We used to try and do singles ‘cause they’re cheaper but...’ Dean shudders. ‘Fuck it, man, you only want that to happen once, y’know?

‘Dean, I don’t--’ But he does. He knows exactly what Dean’s talking about because he remembers it perfectly. He doesn’t know what he had been dreaming about but it had been something warm and comfortable because he’d drifted slowly out of dream into waking without really noticing the change. Having Dean wrapped around him, one arm tight over his waist, a knee nudging the backs of his thighs -- it all could have been part of the dream until Dean mumbled something into the back of his neck and shifted _forward--_

‘And then you were _there_ and it was cold out and Sam was gone and--fuck, Cas, I’m _sorry,_ okay? If that’s what all this is about, I’m sorry -- I’ll -- I’ll do your laundry for a month, all right? Just -- chew me out, say what you gotta say, and be done with it.’

Before Castiel can say anything, Dean grunts and twists on his side, his eyes gleaming bright for a second in what little light there is from the window. ‘I’m sorry. Seriously.’ His voice is low, sober, Dean’s voice for when he’s trying to talk someone away from an edge and Castiel wants to cry. ‘I didn’t know it would happen and -- and I didn’t know it would freak you out so bad. I--’

 _‘Dean.’_ Castiel has to stop him. ‘Dean, you have done nothing wrong. All right? Please. Stop apologizing.’

‘Then what the hell is it? If it’s not that then--’

‘I fucking _liked_ it, all right!’ Castiel hears his own voice echo from the ceiling of the small room and flinches, wishing he could somehow will himself through the mattress, through the floor, and into the room below. 

Dean is silent for a long, ear-ringing minute, and Castiel is starting to consider if he can lever himself to his feet without assistance when Dean says, ‘You -- liked it?’

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut until he sees colors flash in the darkness behind the lids. ‘Yes. You wanted to know what the--what my problem is, that’s what it is, all right? Okay? It’s -- it’s not important, it’s not dangerous, it’s -- just that.’

Dean is silent for another long minute and, just as Castiel starts to try to brace himself on the mattress to push himself up, Dean rolls over, buries his face in the pillow, and starts making strangled gargling noises.

‘Dean? Dean, what’s wrong?’ Castiel grabs his shoulder, feeling him shake and tremble under his hand. ‘Dean!’

‘We are... _so_ stupid,’ Dean gasps out finally, turning his head on the pillow and it becomes evident that he’s been _laughing._ Not crying. Not retching. Just -- laughing. 

‘Speak for yourself,’ Castiel retorts, dropping his hands to the bed and going back to levering himself up. 

‘Where are you going?’

‘To be stupid elsewhere,’ Castiel grits out, trying to use only the muscles on his right side to pull himself to his feet.

‘What? No -- jeeze--’ Dean grabs his elbow and pulls him backwards and Castiel has no option but to go. He ends up half-sprawled on the bed, his head in the crook of Dean’s arm, Dean above him grinning down at him.

‘That hurt, Dean.’ He deliberately keeps his voice stern so he won’t simply start grinning back. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but -- look, I’ll make it all better, okay?’ Dean’s still grinning as he leans over and Castiel doesn’t realise what’s about to happen until Dean’s mouth is on his. Then he’s too flustered to do much of anything. Dean’s lips are warm, a little rough, and there’s a scratch of stubble on his chin. But other than that slight discomfort, it’s _Dean,_ warm and solid and _here,_ and Castiel hears himself groan deep in his throat.

Dean pulls back a few inches and Castiel realises that his hand has found its way around the back of Dean’s neck and apparently Dean’s fingers are buried in his own hair; he can feel the scratch of a thumbnail against the back of his ear. 

‘Dean, you don’t have to--’ He licks his lips and tries again. ‘I won’t leave you and Sam to hunt alone; I--’

‘Jesus fuck, Cas, what do you need me to do? Spell it out in fucking lights?’ Dean ducks forward again, brushes a kiss over Castiel’s lips, and breathes out the words quietly over Castiel’s damp skin: ‘Why the hell do you think I offered to share a bed with you in the first place?’

Castiel swallows hard. He can feel the thump of his pulse against his fingertips and he knows he could reach up and pull Dean down against him and have this right here, right now -- and then Sam would come and Dean would make a joke about what they had done while waiting and they would go back to town and find the warlock and get the Impala back and--

‘No.’

‘What?’ Dean blinks; he’s close enough that even in the near-darkness Castiel can make out the movement.

‘I’m not your bedwarmer.’ 

Dean groans and drops his head forward, pressing it against Castiel’s shoulder. ‘You take some fucking convincing, don’t you?’ 

‘I know what you are like.’

‘Wow. Thanks.’ Dean rests his chin on the back of his hand on Castiel’s chest.

‘I am--’ Castiel pauses, tries again. ‘I’m sorry. I -- don’t think it would be wise for me to -- pretend.’

‘To pretend what?’

Castiel swallows hard. ‘That I would be able to stand seeing you with other people.’

‘You-- Oh.’ Dean pulls back a little, half-sitting up. ‘It--huh.’ 

Castiel swallows again and levers himself up on his right hip. ‘I’m -- sorry I can’t -- do this the way you want to. I wish-- I wish I could.’ He doesn’t, not really, but the lie seems like the right thing to say.

Dean snorts. ‘No, you don’t -- you’re a fucking _awful_ liar, Cas; you always have been. Even in the dark.’

Castiel feels a sudden pressure of warmth over his forearm: Dean’s hand, holding him in place.

‘And how do you know what way I want this to go? You haven’t even asked.’

Castiel sighs. ‘Dean, I _know_ you -- I know what you are like!’

‘Really? You seen me up to lots of...lots of _that_ the past six months or so?’

‘There was that girl in Idaho.’

‘I kissed her when we left the bar. And I left with _you.’_

‘And the one in Kentucky.’

‘She hugged me ‘cause I just saved her from the family ghost. C’mon, Cas! She hugged you, too!’

‘And what about that young man in Tennessee?’

‘He looked like you.’

Castiel blinks hard and stares into the darkness, wishing he could make out something, _anything,_ of Dean’s expression. ‘Like me?’

There’s a shift in the mattress as if Dean shrugs or moves a little. ‘A little. I -- wanted to know if I could get you outta my head. ‘cause you didn’t seem interested and I thought there was no point in drivin’ myself nuts.’

Dean’s voice is a little flat now, a tiny bit sour, as if he’s having to repeat something he didn’t like much the first time. And Castiel is moderately sure his heart has stopped. He certainly can’t feel it beating any more. ‘You--’

‘And we’ve still got almost three hours before Sam comes back,’ Dean’s voice is a low murmur in his ear. ‘And we could spend it arguing over the whys and wherefores of why we didn’t do this six fucking _months_ ago. Or--’

Castiel reaches up, fumbling slightly in the darkness, and finds Dean’s chin with his fingertips; Dean goes silent immediately and Castiel’s thumb presses over the dip in the center of his lower lip. Dean licks his lips almost reflexively and the warm tip of his tongue passes over Castiel’s thumb -- which of them inhales sharply enough to be a gasp, Castiel doesn’t know. He does know that the quick, wet touch on his skin is enough to spark something straight through his chest to his groin. He hears a sound -- a choked-off groan -- and he doesn’t realise it’s _him_ making it until Dean groans in response and his hands pull at Castiel’s clothes, yanking at the zip of his jeans and pulling his t-shirt up to his shoulders.

‘Jesus, Cas, why didn’t you fuckin’ _say_ somethin’ -- I --’

Castiel tries to move, to reach up and pull Dean closer, but whatever muscle he pulled in his back protests, shooting pain down his leg and he gasps.

‘No, no, you just -- lie back--’ Dean’s hands are gentle on his shoulders, pushing him back against the pillows and Castiel takes his chance to slide his own hands around Dean’s waist and tug him down to kiss. Dean’s mouth is warm and wet and lush and open and _everything_ Castiel ever caught himself imagining it would be.

Dean breaks away, panting, his forehead against Castiel’s. ‘Fuck, I -- fuck, Cas.’ 

‘Yes. Please. I--’

Dean groans again and, despite Castiel’s best efforts, pulls away from his hands, sliding down Castiel’s body, scattering kisses over his torso, leaving promises with his fingers. By the time Dean pulls down his jeans and boxers, Castiel is too breathless and too busy trying to remember not to arch up against Dean’s solidity to do much of anything. He’s conscious of a sudden, nearly overwhelming warmth and pressure over his body from mid-thigh to shoulder and, when he realises Dean has somehow managed to pull his own jeans down at the same time and pressed himself against Castiel -- no, not only _pressed_ but, unbelievably, is _rubbing_ himself against Castiel -- and the hot, wet drag against the inside of Castiel’s thigh---

Castiel shudders, groans, and comes, a burst of warmth between their bodies. He hears Dean’s breath catch in surprise, then feels Dean’s hand between them, smoothing over his almost too-sensitive cock, easing the last tiny spurts out of him.

‘Here...here…’ Castiel’s hands are almost a little numb as he fumbles between them but his nerves come back in full force as he finds the weight of Dean’s cock, swollen and heavy against his hip. He wishes, fervently, that they hadn’t turned out the lights. Next time -- next time, he promises himself, there will be light and he will take his time and--

‘Fuck, Cas -- Cas, you --’ 

It’s only when he hears Dean’s voice, rough in his ear, that Castiel realises he has been speaking aloud. ‘Next time, Dean, I’m...I want to see you -- I want to see my hands on you -- I want--’

Dean groans from somewhere deep his his chest and pushes down against Castiel’s hands. Castiel catches his breath and Dean’s hands find his chin, his cheeks, and drag their mouths together as Dean comes into Castiel’s palms, an abrupt, shuddering arch of his body the only warning.

‘Fuck…. _fuck…’_ Dean drags in a breath and collapses against Castiel’s side, his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel takes a minute to get a breath himself -- the air in the room is thick with musk and sweat and he thinks they won’t have to make any sort of explanation to Sam when he returns, just let him get a good sniff at the inside of the cabin. ‘I -- do not think that was fucking.’

Dean groans again, one hand limply swatting at Castiel’s ribs. ‘Oh, fuck you, don’t -- I can’t get it up again that fast, man, I can’t---’

Castiel twists on his side a little stiffly. His sore hip protests but he ignores it. ‘We have at least three more hours.’


End file.
